Grow old along with me The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made Our times are in his hand who saith, A whole I planned, Youth shows but half trust God See all, nor be afraid
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Fear death? - to feel the fog in my throat, / The mist in my face.
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That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
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'You're wounded!' 'Nay,' his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said:...
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Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
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Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought.
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If two lives join, there is oft a scar, / They are one and one, with a shadowy third; / One near one is too far.
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O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. And all a wonder and a wild desire.
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I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time.
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I would have rummaged, ransacked at the word; Those old odd corners of an empty heart; For remnants of dim love the long disused, And dusty crumbling of romance!
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For note, when evening shuts, / A certain moment cuts / The deed off, calls the glory from the grey.
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O lover of my life, O soldier-saint.
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Progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beasts': God is, they are, Man partly is and wholly hopes to be
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Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made:
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Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp - or what's a heaven for
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I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.
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Ignorance is not innocence but sin.
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God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod
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I watched my foolish heart expand / In the lazy glow of benevolence, / O'er the various modes of man's belief.
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A minute's success pays the failure of years.
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Ages past the soul existed, / Here an age 'tis resting merely.
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I despise and abhor the pleas on behalf of that infamous practice, vivisection... I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured to death on the pretense of sparing me a twinge or two.
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He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! / Just such a face!
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Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay,...
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Creation purged o' the miscreate, man redeemed, / A spittle wiped off from the face of God!
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By this time he has tested his first plough, / And studied his last chapter of St John.
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I count life just a stuff to try the soul's strength on.
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Just the one prize vouchsafed unworthy me, / Seven years a gardener of the untoward ground.
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This may be a blessing for some courses, ... The attrition of the facilities hopefully will match the attrition of the population. The golfers that played at City Park or Eastover will want to play golf. So they will have to go to other facilities.
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Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
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